The Game That Raised Me

Some chapters of life don’t just happen to you—they shape you. Softball was one of those chapters for me. Not just the game itself, but the people, the dirt, the rhythm of it all. Especially high school softball, with my dad standing at third base as my head coach.

That field was our language. Long practices, car rides home, knowing looks and long talks. He didn’t go easy on me because I was his daughter. If anything, he expected more. And I wanted to meet it. Every sprint, every drill, every late-night bucket of balls felt like belonging—to the team, to the game, and to him.

I was a junior when everything changed.

Six months apart, I tore my ACL. Twice. The first one knocked the wind out of me. The second one broke my heart. By the time I was 19, I had been through three knee surgeries. Three recoveries. Three times relearning how to trust my body again.

There’s a special kind of grief that comes when your body betrays the future you thought was promised. I didn’t just lose a season—I lost momentum, identity, and the version of myself who believed effort always guaranteed outcome. Watching from the dugout sitting on a bucket of softballs hurt more than the surgeries. Running the score book while your team keeps moving is a quiet, lonely ache.

I learned early that resilience isn’t loud. It doesn’t look like a highlight reel. Sometimes it looks like doing physical therapy alone after school. It looks like crutches at the state tournament. It looks like icing a knee and pretending you’re fine. It looks like showing up to practice even when you can’t play, just so you don’t disappear.

My dad stayed steady through all of it. Coach when I needed direction. Dad when I needed to fall apart. He never rushed my healing, never minimized the loss. He taught me—by example—that strength isn’t pushing through pain blindly, it’s knowing when to pause, when to rebuild, and when to start over.

Those injuries changed my relationship with my body forever. I had to learn patience in a season where everything in me wanted to rush. I had to grieve what was taken without letting it harden me. And I had to redefine success—not as medals or scholarships, but as showing up again and again when quitting would have been easier.

I didn’t become the athlete I thought I would be. But I became something else.

Resilient. Disciplined. Grounded. Comfortable with starting over.

Softball taught me how to work. Injury taught me how to endure.

That chapter didn’t end the way I imagined, but it prepared me for every hard season that followed. Motherhood. Marriage. Career shifts. Setbacks I couldn’t muscle through. Moments where rest, humility, and persistence mattered more than raw drive.

I still carry the game with me. In how I move through hard things. In how I coach my own kids with empathy and fire. In how I respect my body now—not for what it produces, but for what it survives.

That field raised me.

Those injuries humbled me.

And the girl in the bright pink knee brace learned how to stand back up—again and again.